Back To Haunt Us
by Morralls
Summary: They thought that they had put him in jail forever five years ago. They thought that he was gone for good. They were wrong, and now Sophie's ex-husband is back, looking for revenge on her- and his brother.
1. Revenge

Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage…. Tried once, but that didn't work out for me. I am not associated with Dean Devlin, Timothy Hutton, Gina Bellman… the gang, basically.

Author's Note: I really love the idea for this. Concepts that you come up with when you're half asleep are generally the coolest ones. So, basically, I've read a bunch of stuff that had Sophie having been married before, and I was playing with that idea while simultaneously wondering what inspired Nate to be an insurance cop, and voila! An idea. I think it's pretty clever, and explains a bit about them and what they've been through together, and what they could still go through. I've also been trying to work on my imagery, since my fics are all talk and no description, and that's really not a good thing for an aspiring writer. So, without further ado: the actual story. Reviews make me happy, I'm just saying. Tell me what you want to see people, because my muse (XD Tenae) is always looking for fresh material to make stories out of. Anyway, I digress. Enjoy.

For five years, the building had been abandoned, the underground room rejected and vacant.

The only light in the room emanated from the shadeless, fluorescent bulb that hung forlornly from the ceiling, casting all but the deepest shadows of the room in a dull, dreary glow. The heavy steel door was shut, with the deadbolt in place, and the lock turned as an extra precaution. There was a thick layer of dust over everything except for the black leather chairs, which had been polished until they gleamed in the sparse light, as if waiting for the two men who sat in them now. A sleek Mac laptop hummed quietly on the table, the only noise to break the prolonged silence in the room. The table was small, with wrought iron legs and a stone top, looking elegant and out of place in the cell-like chamber. The walls were bare, and cracked in places, except for the wall the chairs sat facing, which was covered by a massive plasma screen that had cracked down the left side.

At the head of the table sat Aaron Mordaunt, a young Australian man with long blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail and taupe eyes. His frame was lean and wiry, portraying potential without the necessary discipline to hone the muscle. Despite his best efforts, his unease came through. He kept glancing around the room nervously, as if he was expecting someone to miraculously appear through the locked and deadbolted steel door. His right leg was bouncing spasmodically, and he was twisting a gold ring around his index finger.

The other man in the room, Christopher Keeling, cast him an irritated glance, and Aaron stilled. His elder was American, built more solidly than his wiry companion. His hair was graying, but brown remained the dominant shade, and it fell in curls around his face. His eyes, a piercing cerulean blue, gazed at the computer screen with a hunger similar to a starved wolf. His fingers skimmed the laptop's keyboard, and he brought a picture of a couple onto the cracked plasma screen.

The woman was stunning, with layered brown hair and chocolate eyes. She was tan, elegant, and graceful-looking. Beside her was a man with cerulean eyes and curly brown hair. He was leaner than Christopher, and younger, but otherwise, they looked the same.

"That's my ex-wife." Christopher said quietly, breaking the deafening silence.

"She's beautiful, Chris." Aaron said, looking stunned. Christopher nodded.

"Yes, and talented too. You'll never meet a better grifter. Sophie Devereaux: Beautiful, talented, able to turn any bad situation into a complete success. When she was my partner, we could have stolen the world." Christopher said, a reminiscent gleam in his blue eyes.

"So… why'd you two get divorced?" Aaron asked hesitantly.

"The bitch left me for that bastard."

"On the screen? That's not you?"

"No."

"But… you look just like him. " Aaron said, confused. "He looks like he could be-"

"My brother. That's because he is." Christopher interrupted, glaring at his brother with hate-filled eyes. "Nathan Ford, insurance investigator for IYS."

"_The_ Agent Ford?" Aaron asked, astonished. Christopher nodded in confirmation.

"That's Nate. Always the _good son_, the _honest man_, the _white knight_." Christopher scoffed. "And he took her from me. We could have been the best thieves in history if _he_ hadn't come along. The manipulative bastard stole Sophie from me, even though he _had_ a wife, and tricked her into throwing me into jail. If you hadn't come along and busted me out, I would never have a chance."

"A chance for what?" Aaron asked, though he already knew the answer.

Christopher didn't look away from the pair on the screen, his cerulean eyes alight with the force for his hate and resentment. "For revenge." He hissed. "They ruined me, and now I'm going to ruin them."


	2. Drunk

The door was thrown open, slamming into the wall with a loud crash. The grifter was awake instantly, sitting up, her chocolate eyes zeroing in on the silhouette of the tall man in her bedroom doorway. She recognized the mop of curly hair, even if she couldn't see Nate's face clearly in the darkness. Sophie's muscles untensed, one by one, and she looked at her alarm clock, which informed her in dim red numbers that it was one thirty. Sophie didn't need the tell-tale whiff of alcohol to tell her he was drunk.

She could feel the familiar knot squeezing, beginning in her stomach and working its way up to her throat as she choked back equally familiar tears. Her hand, which up until now had been reaching for the light, fell back to her bed. She didn't want to see those startlingly blue eyes clouded and dulled by alcohol. There was only so much a woman could take.

"What do you want Nate?"

"Ah jus' wanned t' see yeh." Nate slurred, crossing the room and taking her face in his hands. "Ah always wanna see yeh."

Sophie's breath caught in her throat. "Nate… you're drunk." She accused, hesitating. Something was different. Something was _wrong._ His voice was off somehow, his hands too strong, and his breath smelled like bourbon and… something. Something familiar, but not familiar. Something she couldn't name. He was drunk, which made him sound different, and _feel_ different.

"So?"

"So it's not right." Sophie said, unable and unwilling to pull an inch away.

"So?" Nate asked again.

"_So_…" Sophie hesitated. It wasn't _right_, because Nate was drunk, but Sophie didn't know how to explain that. He wasn't in control of himself, but she knew he wanted her. He had admitted it before. All the same, it was _wrong_.

Nate took her hesitation for something it wasn't. He said, "That's what I thought," and then his lips were on hers. She gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, turning her surprised gasp into a low moan. One of her hands rested against his chest, the other grabbed his shoulder, holding herself steady. He had one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her arm just above her elbow tightly.

Sophie didn't understand why, but this was _wrong_. His lips were too rough against hers, his grip too strong. This wasn't _Nate_, kind, gentle, the honest man. He was drunk, and wasn't himself. This wasn't what she wanted, and it wasn't what he would want when he was sober. She pulled away and leaned back, trying to catch her breath. He chased her lips, but she placed a hand against his chest, holding him back. "No, Nate. Not when you're drunk."

"Sophie…" He chuckled, and it was a dangerous sound. Sophie shuddered, her instincts afraid, even if she wasn't.

"No." She repeated. "I'll take you home, and you can go to bed. We have to be at the office at eleven tomorrow. You and I both need sleep."

Nate shook his head and kissed her again, pressing her back against her bed's headboard. When she tried to push him away, the hand on her elbow tightened into a painful grip.

"Ow! Nate, that hurts!" Sophie pulled at his hand, trying to pry it off. She was scared when his hand tightened further, and he forced her mouth open when she resisted the kiss. The hand that wasn't restraining her slipped beneath her shirt, and Sophie's fear grew to terror.

She placed both hands against his chest and shoved with the full force of her terror. Nate stumbled back, caught off guard.

She should have seen it coming, but it was _Nate_: How would she? Shock rang through her at the sound, and suddenly she was facing the side, her face burning in a pain that she remembered. Automatically, she raised a hand to her cheek, feeling it swelling beneath her fingers. She could taste blood, and feel it dripping down her chin and onto her mattress. Sophie's eyes were brimmed with tears, and when Nate reached for her again, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close, she panicked and shoved him away. "Nate, stop it!"

His hands, gripping her shoulders now, threw her backwards. Sophie cried out in pain as her head collided with the hard mahogany of her headboard, then collapsed, sinking into unconsciousness.


	3. Closet

The plan is going badly on me. The guards know that someone's in the building. I can probably charm my way out, but I don't trust _probably_. I'd rather hide.

There's a door to my left, and I yank it open, revealing a broom closet, and it looks deep. Easy to hide in here. I pull the door closed behind me, and then I'm alone, and it's dark. I wait for my eyes to adjust, then try and pick my way deeper into the closet.

I step on something soft, and it's pulled out from under my foot with a low curse. I'm not alone. Terror shoots through me, and I jerk back with a gasp. I'm a thief, and I know better than to let out the shriek that's stuck in my throat, ready to come out when I release my held breath.

My unwelcome companion stands up, and moves in a fluid motion. In the next moment, I'm pressed up against the wall, with a hand over my mouth and something cold and sharp at my throat. I freeze, afraid to move. I recognize the feeling of a knife at my throat.

"Keep quiet." He hisses, his voice low and soft. I nod very slowly, and he lifts his hand off my mouth. "Why are you hiding in the closet?"

"I could ask the same about you." I reply evenly.

"I asked you first." He says. The knife at my throat is good incentive to give him what he wants.

"Someone set off an alarm. There's a thief in the building, and I'm searching." I retort, coming up with the closest thing to the truth that I can find. Suddenly, the knife is pressing into my throat, too hard.

"Oh good. I've been looking for a way out. I really hate having to resort to a hostage, but whatever works." His voice is resigned, though not necessarily happy. He doesn't sound any more thrilled to have a hostage than I am to be one. Then again, I'm too stunned to really care about the hostage thing.

"Wait, _you're_ the thief?" How in the world does _that_ work? "That makes no sense."

"How does that _not_ make sense?"

"Because I'm the thief!"

He's so surprised, he lets me go, lowering the knife from my jugular. "What?"

I push him back a bit. He's too close. "I'm here to steal the Picasso for a client of mine." I explain in a whisper. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here to steal the Picasso as well." His voice is self-satisfied now. "I've got it."

"What? _How?_ I just checked on it five minutes ago!" I'm astonished.

"It wasn't that hard, really. I got the museum director to move the Picasso… well… to have _me_ move the Picasso. Then, this thief business sprung up and I had to find a place to wait until I could get the painting to my safe location."

"I don't know how they figured it out. I'm sloppy, apparently." I admit.

"Well I'm Christopher." He tells me, a smile in his voice. I can't see much because it's so dark, but I can see his teeth in what little light there is. And his eyes, blue as the ocean. "Chris Keeling."

"Sophie Devereaux." I give him my favorite alias, the on I'm using at the moment. The one I chose back then.

He lifts my hand and kisses it. The gesture is old-fashioned, but sweet, and his blue eyes are sparkling. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sophie Devereaux."

"You too, Chris Keeling." I reply, smirking. I hear someone coming down the hall and react without thinking. I pull him close, wrapping one arm around his neck and taking a fistful of his hair, which I notice is curly. Then I kiss him.

For a moment, he's frozen, confused, and then I take his lower lip between mine and trace it with my tongue. He's more receptive suddenly, and I find myself in his arms, every inch of my body pressed against him. His hand slips under my shirt, running along my waistband, and I moan quietly.

The door opens, and Chris and I jerk away from each other, squinting into the sudden brightness. The museum director is gawking at us, and I smirk and wipe a hand along my lower lip. I'm sure Chris is wearing some of my lipstick. "Kristen?" He sounds like a father, and my smirk fades. I hate that he considers it his job to act paternal. He's only known me for two weeks.

"Hey Doc." I say, trying to sound like a chastised girl.

"Nicholas, you should be ashamed of yourself! Kristen is in high school still!" Dr. Daniels exclaims angrily. I look at the ground and Chris looks at me. I don't want to see his expression anymore than I want him to see me blushing furiously.

"She is?" Chris asks, his voice too calm. "I didn't know that."

"I'm a senior." I explain quietly, speaking to his expensive Oxfords and my black flats. "I'm eighteen."

"You might have told me that, Kristen." Chris says, subtle emphasis on my alias. "I'm twenty six." He steps past Dr. Daniels and strides down the hall. I'm not so lucky. Dr. Daniels takes my arm and marches me to his office. I sit through a speech about responsibility, and about how it's his job to take care of me and keep me from doing something I'll regret later.

I act contrite, and, when he's satisfied that I got the message, he lets me go. I make sure he's not following me, then go back to the closet, this time with a flashlight. I'm grieved, though not necessarily surprised, to find that the Picasso is gone.

I leave the museum, intent on my temporary home, but I only get as far as the corner. "Are you really in high school?"

I smile and shake my head. "No. Are you really twenty six?"

"Are you really eighteen?" He counters. I turn around and he's there, smoking a cigarette and looking oh-so-delicious leaning against the wall. His hair is short and curly, and his face is well-defined with a few days' worth of stubble on him. He's in black: black Oxfords, black pants, a black shirt, and a black leather jacket.

"Yes." I confirm, this time without acting meek or ashamed. I repeat my question. "What about you? Are you really twenty six?

He takes a drag, then exhales, nodding. "Yeah." I go over to him, so that I'm out of sight of the museum. He watches me for a moment, silent, then, "So why'd you kiss me?"

"I heard someone coming. There aren't a lot of reasons to be hiding in a closet, and I didn't really have time to come up with a better plan." I shrug. "Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize to me. I rather enjoyed that." He replies, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Until you found out about my age." I throw in shrewdly. He laughs, shaking his head.

"It's no big deal to me."

"It's eight years."

"Wouldn't seem like so much if you were twenty one and I was twenty nine, now would it?" He asks. He has a point.

"But most people your age see me as a kid."

"Most people my age think in terms of numbers. Age isn't important. What's important is maturity, and you sure look a hell of a lot like a woman to me, Sophie Devereaux." He looks me over, then lets out a stream of smoke that's accompanied by a low whistle. I can't fight my smile.

Chris takes one last drag off his cigarette, then drops it on the ground. "I like your style. What's your next job?"

"I'm between them at the moment, actually."

"Than maybe you'll help me out with one of mine?" He asks. I smirk.

"I might consider it." I say, flirting a little. "What have you got?"

He smiles and offers me his hand. "I'll tell you over dinner." I smile back and take his hand.

That might be the worst mistake I'll ever make.


	4. Office

Sophie stepped out of the shower, wincing at the feeling of hot steam on the back of her head. She used a soft brush to pull her hair into a low ponytail, and then surveyed herself in the mirror.

There were bruises of his fingers on her arm where he had grabbed her, and her cheek was bruised and swollen. There was a dark line on her lower lip where it had been split. She touched a hand gently to the back of her head where she had a knot. It had bled earlier, but it seemed to be okay now. Well… relatively okay.

She looked horrible, with her hair pulled back lazily, the injuries she couldn't easily hide, and her chocolate eyes wide and scared-looking. She didn't want to go to the office and see him, but the alternative was for him to call her and find her. She knew that Hardison could do it, and if Nathan asked him to, Hardison would.

She drove to the office and poked her head in the door, looking to see if anyone was inside. When she saw that the way to her office was clear, she moved towards it, ducking her head.

"Sophie." She froze, terror shooting through her veins.

"Yes?" She turned slowly. Nate was in his office, his head in his hands as he suffered through his hangover.

"Can you do me a favor and grab me some aspirin from the kitchen?"

"Um… sure.." Sophie went into the small kitchen and grabbed a glass with water. She paused, looking out the window at the city as she processed her feelings.

She was scared, of course. Absolutely terrified, and stunned. She had seen Nate drunk, bit never, _never_, violent. He hadn't even been rough when he was the cop, bringing in the thief. She wasn't afraid of Nate when he was sober. Now she had another reason to hate seeing him drunk: fear.

She wasn't mad though. She had every right to be furious with Nate, but she wasn't angry. Mostly, she was just worried about him.

Then again, she had never been type to be angry in this situation. She had never been angry with-

"Sophie?" Nate's voice, right behind her made her jump, spilling water down her front, and she spun around.

Nate's blue eyes widened as he took in Sophie's disheveled appearance. "My God, Sophie, what _happened_?"

Sophie looked down at her ruined shirt as Nate came closer. She stumbled a step back, but he didn't take any notice of it. "It's no big deal Nate. It's just water."

"No. Sophie, what happened to your face?" Concern shone through those beautiful cerulean eyes, clear right now because he was sober, and Sophie's heart went out to him in spite of herself. He didn't remember, and when she met his eyes, she knew that she couldn't say it. She couldn't tell him that. She didn't know how Nate would handle learning that particular piece of information, but she didn't want to find out. She had never believed that he would harm her, but she had been wrong. She didn't trust him anymore. He scared her, and she didn't like having him so near, but she was afraid to move away and even more afraid to fill in his memory of the night before.

"I tripped. It's nothing." She lied, shrugging.

Nate reached out, brushing his fingers against her swollen cheek. She couldn't help but flinch, and Nate pulled away, frowning. He looked her over once, then unbuttoned his shirt. "Here. Go put this on and get out of that wet shirt. I'll bring coffee in a few minutes."

"Really, Nate, I don't need-"

"Sophie, just do it." Nate ordered, sounding exasperated. Sophie snapped her mouth shut and took the shirt before hurrying to her office. She slipped into his too-big shirt and buttoned it up, leaving the last two buttons undone. She sank in her chair and tried to regain her composure before Nate got back. She was the best grifter there was in the world, dammit, and she should be able to have some form of self control.

It wasn't long before he knocked on the door to her office. "Come in Nate." Sophie called, trying desperately to remember to act.

He opened the door to her office and handed her some coffee. She accepted the drink, taking a hesitant sip. Nate had prepared it the way he knew she liked it, and she looked away, feeling her heart being squeezed. How could someone so sweet have shown up at her house last night?

Nate frowned suddenly, and put his coffee down. Sophie froze, her mug halfway to her lips as Nate reached for her. He grabbed the fabric of her shirt and lifted it up to reveal the bruises above her elbow. Sophie watched recognition flash across his face, and his eyes were hard with the force of his anger as they took in her bruised cheek with fresh knowledge. "Who?"

"Nate, what do you remember about what you did last night?" Sophie asked.

"Ate dinner and went to bed…. I think." Nate replied, sounding unsure before realization touched his face and looked at her with pleading eyes. "Are you saying that…_I_…?"

Wordlessly, Sophie took his hand and placed his against the bruise, curling his fingers around her arm. It matched perfectly.

Nate released her as though touching her had set him on fire, looking at her in horrified silence.

Sophie looked away, placing a hand on her arm to cover the bruise. "I'm okay Nate." Sophie lied. Nate reached for her and she flinched. He pulled away, his voice bitter.

"Yeah. You're just _fine_." He muttered bitterly, before turning and leaving her alone in her office. She curled up tiredly on the couch, and only heard one bottle shattering before she fell asleep.


	5. Lesson

I walk away calmly, although I'm full of excitement. Another con pulled off, with so few flaws that for once, _I_ ran it all the way through. The bad over my shoulder is heavy with the weight of our success, and the knowledge that a ming vase is in the box I snuck in today makes me swell with pride.

I'm finishing off a cigarette as a car pulls up, and I see a pair of familiar sunglasses hiding blue eyes turn on me. I hand the vase in through the window and walk around to the passenger side oof the car, hoping desperately that my handsome partner is staring at _me_, not the vase.

I slip into my seat, trying not to feel the childish disappointment when I see him peering into my bag. I rationalize. Of course Chris has to make sure that I have the merchandise. I have a buyer, and we can hardly sell damaged goods. It's business. Finally he nods his satisfaction and hands the bag to me, letting me cradle the precious vase in my arms as he drives back to the safehouse.

"Smooth con?"

"For the most part. Ravenna was a little bit more observant than you gave him credit for. I had to work with what I had."

"What happened?"

"He caught me planting the decoy. I heard him coming and so I worked up a few tears and sold him on a sob story about how my grandmother just died, and I had showed her pictures of what was in the museum. I started crying about how the vase was her favorite. He ate it up. Put the decoy on the stand _for_ me."

"I take it you couldn't be wearing the gloves I gave you." Chris raised an eyebrow. "Which means that your prints are _all over_ the vase. Well done, Sophie."

I scoff, pulling long, skin colored gloves off my hands. "Give me a little credit, Chris. I'm not a complete idiot."

"You have a good teacher." His lips twitch. "So where'd you mess up?"

"I... I didn't."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't try to lie to a liar. If Ravenna was suspicious, you must have messed up somewhere. How many times have I told you? People rarely notice things."

I fall silent, thinking about this last con. I had gone in smoothly, but Ravenna hadn't always been watching me. He hadn't always been looking for a reason to blame me. No.... at first, Ravenna had wanted more than to blame me. "He.... He thought I was pretty. He was always watching me, pawed at me until I told him to lay off."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "You told him to lay off?"

"Of course I did! I didn't bloody well want the bastard all over me!"

"You _never_ tell someone off!"

"Ravenna's at _least_ forty, Chris!"

"I don't care if he's one hundred! Don't you know how to use sex appeal?!"

I blush crimson. Chris hit a nerve. "There's a difference between sex appeal and actual _sex_." I reply.

His eyes are wide as he takes in my reaction. "You honestly don't. You work purely with charisma."

"Isn't that what a grifter does?" I retort. Chris pulls up and I take the vase inside, stashing it in the safe. "What do you want for dinner, Chris? I have a recipe for a Parisian citrus chicken that looks _divine_."

"Make Italian." Chris replies. I more than expect this. Chris doesn't like French food the way I do.

"Are you sure?"

"Now, Sophie!" Chris snaps.

"Alright, alright! You don't have to be so demanding."

Dinner is eaten in frosty silence, and when it's finished, I clear the table, half ignoring him, half dreaming about him.

Chris and I met eight months ago, and after he let me help him on that first con, he realized that he likes having me around to help, and I more than enjoy helping him. A month later, he learned that I had nowhere to stay, and since then I've been staying with him. Since the safehouses are all Chris's, I've been sleeping on the couch, but I don't mind. Chris and I have a good system set up here.

He chooses the jobs, goes in and does surveillance, then tells me who I need to know, what I'm stealing, and how to pull it off. I go in, throwing around whatever alias fits the part I need to, and finish the con. When we're not running a con, I cook, clean, do general safehouse maintenance. Of course I owe that to Chris since he lets me stay with him, and doing housework while he relaxes doesn't bother me. After all, I'm fairly confident that thinking up the con to do is the hardest part of it all.

Of course, over the eight months that Chris and I have been business partners, I've developed a bit more than necessary affection for him. In short, I'm head over heels in love with the tall, handsome man I work with, but I refuse to show the naivete necessary to try and form more than a business partnership with him. We're thieves, and a partnership between thieves can last anywhere from two days to twenty years. It's not a very finite number, and since I know that we could stop working together at any moment, emotional attachment is hardly something that I'm willing to pursue. Love is unheard of among thieves.

"Sophie."

"Hmm?" I turn and he's startlingly close. Too close, and I can't breathe because of the way his eyes are holding mine. Blue and dazzling and wicked.

"You need to learn the most important lesson in a grifter's arsenal." He steps closer, trapping me against the wall.

"And what would that be?" I ask breathlessly. He takes another step towards me, and I can't breathe, my chest heaving, brushing against his.

"I... I don't know, Chris." I whisper. He chuckles.

"Sex appeal."

"It's easy." His hands go to my shirt and he undoes the top two buttons, revealing the edge of my bra, a hint of cleavage. His fingers trace the bra and my breathing catches. "This needs to be lacy, and _this_-" His hands grip the waistband of my skirt, pulling it higher, exposing most of my thighs. "-needs to be higher." His hands go to my hair, pulling it out of the clip I was holding it back with so that it falls around my shoulders in thick, curly waves. "Add a pair of three inch heels and red lipstick and every man in the world will want you."

I flush, feeling exposed and uncomfortable. "I look like a cheap hooker." I protest.

"You _look_ hot. What's got you so nervous, Sophie? You act like no one has ever seen you before." Chris says. I'm not naive enough that I don't know that he's referring to sex, and the truth makes me flush and look away. I hear the low chuckle, can feel his breath across my cheek, and then his finger hooks under my chin, raising my gaze so that I have to meet his eyes. "I'm right, aren't I? You're a vir-"

"Yes, I am." I cut him off before he can say it, blushing furiously. "You're right, okay? Happy now?"

"Can you tell me why?"

"I can."

His lips twitch. "Will you?"

"I might."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why haven't you been with anyone?"

"I'm only _nineteen_, Chris. It's not _that_ surprising."

"What held you back?"

"I hadn't met the right person, I guess."

He lifts my chin again, so close that I can feel his breath on my lips. "Am I the right person?" He doesn't give me a chance to answer, just kisses me, hard and fast, leaving me breathless.

Later - much later - when I'm spent and sore and wrapped in Chris's arms, wearing exactly _nothing_, I wonder if he _is_ the right person, and if he is, then why do I feel so wrong? He pulls me closer in his sleep, his breath hot and gentle against my ear, and I snuggle closer, pushing all thoughts of it out of my mind. Of course he's the right one. I love him.... right?


	6. Liar

**Author's Note: I know, I know. Feel free to yell at me for taking forever to update. Life's been kinda hectic lately. But I've finally gotten around to typing this out, and, as always, I have a million and a half ideas bouncing around my head. So read, review, tell me what you want me to update next. And Tenae, where's my fic? :[**

Sophie's tale was riveting, and Parker and Hardison were easily convinced. Nate, of course, knew better, so he was too busy destroying himself to listen. Eliot listened, but was watching Nate and Sophie carefully. She spoke, and every time she mentioned her injuries, Nate cringed. It was subtle, and only Eliot and Sophie caught it. "Anyway, I took care of it." Sophie said flippantly. "Andrew won't be bothering me again." he stood and strode into her office. Once the door closed behind her, she sank into the chair with a shaky breath. There was a knock on the door and she dropped her head into her hands. "Go away." She murmured, before sitting up and brushing her hair back. "Come in."

Nate slipped inside, and she tensed automatically. He held up his hands in a stereotypical 'I surrender' gesture. "I come in peace." He said, his voice bitter. He set a cup of tea in front of her. "Earl Grey."

"Twinings?"

"Of course."

She offered him a tentative smile. "My favorite." He laughed bitterly and she cringed again.

"You're terrified of me. And you _lied_ to them."

"I'm a liar, Nate."

"Not about this, Sophie." Nate pleaded. "You lied to me about this. If you lie to them, it means I'm like-"

"You aren't, Nate." Sophie replied sternly. "And you won't do anyone good if you convince yourself that you are."

He shook his head. "Sophie, I don't know what... I..."

"I know." She sighed. "Let it go, Nate. It's over."

"Believe me, I know." He hesitated. "Drink your tea." He walked out. Eliot caught the door to step inside.

"Honestly, Eliot? Can't I have a moment's peace?"

"What really happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you didn't get those injuries from someone trying to kill you, Sophie. So what happened?"

"Andrew made me an offer I had to refuse. He never took rejection well."

Eliot shook his head. "There is no Andrew. You're trying to protect Nate."

"What are you talking about? Nate wouldn't-"

"I never thought I'd see you lie badly, Sophie." Eliot interjected. "But I guess there's a first time for everything." Sophie started to protest, but he held up a hand. "I was watching Nate hate himself all through your story, and from the way he looks like he's considering eating a bullet, I doubt he would lie if I asked him if your injuries are by his doing."

Sophie sighed, deflated. "So?"

"So I want to know what I'm kicking his ass for."

"Eliot, you can't." Sophie pleaded. "Tryst me when I say that he's damaging himself far more than you could ever damage him, and doing far worse to himself than what you see on me."

"How?"

"He's comparing himself to Christopher Keeling."

"Isn't that the guy who's serving a life sentence for murdering his wife? The criminal mastermind?"

"That's the one." Sophie agreed miserably.

"Okay, I think that might be a little over the top, considering the circumstances, I'll admit, but all the same, Sophie-"

"It's not as over the top as you might think, Eliot, if you know Keeling's history."

"Only child, parents dead-"

"That's a complete lie." Sophie scoffed.

"How do you know so much about it?"

"Because I'm his dead wife." Sophie replied. "Nate and I staged my death, used Chris's DNA. That was easy for me to get, and Nate looks enough like Chris that a security camera could be fooled. It was easy."

"So... Keeling was an innocent man?'

Sophie snorted. "Chris? Innocent?" She shook her head. "Nate saw me for the first time in Prague, and I mistook him for Chris and ran away. I lost him. I was in hiding for two years, and finally, I felt bold enough to make a theft in Damascus. Chris found me two days late, and Nate showed up three days after that. When he met me, I couldn't get away from him. I couldn't _walk_. Nate took me to a hospital about four hours before I would have drowned from blood pooling in my lungs. That was the first time he saved my life."

Eliot stared at her, stunned into silence. "Still, the same woman isn't a reason to compare yourself to _that_." He shook his head. "I'm not condoning what Nate _did_, but he's nothing like Chris Keeling."

Sophie shook his head. "He's much more like Chris than you think he is. They've got the same intelligence, the same determination... even the same face."

"Why do they look so much alike?"

"Because Christopher Keeling was born Christopher Ford. He's Nate's older brother."

"So Nate is well within his rights to compare himself to Christopher."

"He was drunk last night." Sophie murmured. "Drunk out of his mind. He came onto me, and I pushed him away."

"Are you sure it's not Chris who attacked you?"

"Chris is in jail, Eliot. Nate would know if he had broken out." Sophie replied. "And I can tell the difference between them."

Eliot nodded seriously. "I don't know what to say, Sophie. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to say anything. Just leave Nate alone. It's not his fault."

"The hell it's not! He hit you, Sophie!"

"Yes, Eliot, I know!" Sophie retorted. "Thank you for the reminder. I really needed it."She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Get out. Leave me be, and leave Nate be."

He shrugged and walked out. Sophie dropped her head into her hands, fighting tears. Everything had gone so wrong.

"_Miss? Miss, can you hear me?"_

_She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't speak. She coughed weakly and could taste her own blood. She met his too-blue eyes, even brighter and bluer than Chris's. He looked so much like her husband, but she wasn't afraid of him. "Aw hell... this is probably going to hurt, but I don't have much of a choice." The man scooped her up, and was right - it hurt like Hell, but in a few minutes, she was in a car, on the way to a hospital. He was talking to her on the way there, his voice soothing, a light Boston accent peeking through. She passed out on the way there and didn't wake again until the next day. She could see two policemen arresting the kind, blue eyed man who looked so much like Chris, but had that light in his eyes. _

"_Stop. Leave him alone." She ordered weakly, glad she could speak again._

_He offered her a gentle smile. "It's okay."_

"_No. He didn't do anything." Sophie protested. "It wasn't him."_

"_They don't speak English." Nate said, standing still as the police pulled out his gun. Within moments, his IYS badge was found and he was being released as a translator was sent for. _

"_If this man was not the one who attacked you, then who is?" The man asked in heavily accented English._

"_I... I wasn't attacked. This man found me after I fell down some stairs." Sophie lied. The blue-eyed man's brow furrows._

"_Gentlemen, she needs to rest." He cut in. "This can be taken care of another day."_

"_If she is in danger, then it would be unwise to leave her alone." The translator said uncomfortably._

"_Which is why I'm not going anywhere." The kind man replied, tucking his gun back into the holster beneath his shirt. "I'll keep her safe."_

"_This is agreeable." The police left and he sank into the chair beside her bed. _

"_So what's your name?"_

"_I..." She considered lying, but this man had saved her life. "Sophie Devereaux."_

"_And what's the name of your stairs?" He asked shrewdly._

"_That, I won't tell you."_

"_Well my name is Nathan Ford, and I'm an IYS Insurance Cop who found a stolen painting in the room I found you in, Sophie Devereaux, and I need someone to arrest." He informed her pleasantly._

"_...Keeling."_

_He groaned. "I should have known that Chris would be behind this after you ran from me in Prague."_

"_That was you?"_

"_Yep."_

"_But you look just like Chris."_

"_Well I'm his little brother. I'm the good guy." Nate said cheerfully. "And as the good guy, it's my job to save the innocent... even if you're a thief."_

"_What makes you think that?" Sophie asked, trying to cover her tracks. _

"_My brother doesn't get involved with anyone he can't sell out when it comes time to save his own ass." Nate replied calmly. "If you weren't a criminal, you wouldn't be here."_

"_Well that's comforting." Sophie sighed. "I chose the wrong brother."_

"_Well I'm married." Nate replied. "And I don't have another brother. I have a son, but he's too young for you."_

_She laughed, even though it hurt. "Leave, Nathan. When Chris shows up, he won't hesitate to hurt you."_

"_The feeling is mutual." Nate assured her. "There's no love lost between my brother and I. I promise you that."_

"_So you're willing to risk your life for a perfect stranger. You're a strange man, Nathan Ford."_

"_So everyone keeps telling me." He shrugged. "Now get some rest. You're injured."_

_She fell asleep, feeling safe with him nearby._

"Sophie... Sophie!" She woke up to blue eyes, bright with concern, and she broke down.

"You... you saved me." She sobbed, curling her fingers in his shirt. "You saved my life, and now, when I _need_ you, you won't come near me~"

"Sophie, I-"

"I don't _care!_ You're not going to hurt me, Nate!" She promised him. "It... It only makes it worse." Her voice broke, and she dropped her head against his chest, crying quietly.

After a long moment, he wrapped his arms securely around her, holding her safe. "All those years ago, I promised that I wouldn't let anyone hurt you like that again. I _will_ abide by that, no matter what."

"I know." She hugged him to her. "Just shut up and hold me, Nate."

"If you promise not to cry anymore."

She took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay."

He shut up and held her.


	7. Marry

I don't know how this happened. A year ago, he was so sweet, so romantic. Sure, he was a little demanding, but all men are. He's the one who told me to use sex appeal on marks, and now that

I'm older, (only twenty, I know) I know how to use it.

Now my husband accuses me of flirting with my marks. Now, I go in and work a con, and I come home and he does _this_.

Only last year, he was down on one knee, a kind smile on his face, asking me to marry him. Of course I said yes.

I didn't understand back then. Not like I do now. Chris never wanted to marry me, and it sure as hell doesn't stop him from sleeping around. He wanted to own me. He wanted me to be a possession. Another pretty object that no one else can touch. And he's gone through great lengths to keep me pretty. Not so much right now, with a bruise on my jaw and a small cut on my cheek, but those will heal. They won't leave marks. The wound on my stomach will, and he knows it. Another 'reminder' that I'm _his_ and no one else's, and don't I know it.

The knife mark on my ribs is slow to heal, and it's healing badly because Chris would never take me to the hospital.

I think even prison would be better than this.

I can't run game like this, so Chris is running them solo. I know that in an hour or so, he'll have to wake up to go meet the mark. And I'll be expected to cook him breakfast and stay quiet and happy while he either duct tapes the doors and windows to keep me in, or ties me somewhere to hold me so he knows I won't run. I hope he uses the duct tape today. My wrists are still sore from the last time he tied me up, so tightly that I was bleeding by the time he came home.

And he got angry that I got blood on the white carpet.

And all I can do is remember my mother's words. She started planning for me when I was just a little girl. When I started to grow up and my father paid more attention to me than her. I didn't understand it then, but now I know what my mother saved me from. She used the name Sophie for me, even then. Told me to get used to being 'Sophie Devereaux' instead of using the name I was born with.

And when I was just fourteen, a young girl beginning to turn into a young woman, she sent me away, made me promise never to come back, and never to try to contact her. I don't even know if my mother is still alive. I doubt she is.

They say you'll marry a man like your father. Suddenly I'm nine years old again, watching my parents argue. Well, really, my father is arguing. My mother is cowering and trying to apologize. She would succeed, if she could stop crying long enough to get the words out.

He hits her, hard enough that she cries out and falls, landing on the ground. She doesn't get up. She knows better than that.

I, as a little girl, attempting to appease my father, retrieve the remote control from where I always put it (so that I can find it quickly next time) and set it on the arm of the chair before going to find my father a drink. I bring him one from the kitchen as he sits down and turns the tv on. He barely glances at me as he tells me to get out of his sight, and I scurry off to do my homework, leaving my mother and father. If I was smart, I would have gotten my mother to run away with me, and we could have gone and lived a life happy without him. Instead, I avoid her, even if she's the only source of kindness in my lonely world. I let my mother and father stay in this horrid, loveless marriage. And I vow that my marriage won't be like that.

They say you'll marry a man like your father. I leave the bathroom where I'm expecting the numerous bruises, scrapes, cuts, and worse injuries. Lunch isn't ready and Chris is angry. We argue. Well... he argues, while I cower and try to apologize. I would succeed, if not for these awful tears choking in my throat. He hits me, hard enough that I fall to the ground. I don't get up.

I know better than that.

Finally, he goes to the television and sits down, picking up the remote from where I keep it on the table, where I always place it after finding it once Chris is asleep. And I get up and make him lunch and get him a drink and give it to him. He barely glances at me as he tells me to get out of his sight, and I scurry off to clean blood off of the bathroom floor. This time though, the blood is mine.

If I was smart, I would have from away, gone and lived a happy life without him. But I don't. I stay in this loveless marriage with my husband, and I mourn the fact that I was wrong as a child, because my marriage is just like my parents'.

They say you'll marry a man like your father. They're right.

Eventually, I do run, though it takes me the better part of ten years to get up the courage. Chris is smart, and he's very good, so I liquidate all my funds and deal only in cash, bouncing around Europe in cars with no plates, taking ferries instead of airplanes. Nothing that would allow him to find me. I stay in cheap hotels and hostels, anything that doesn't require my credit card. For three years, I avoid him.

I'm in Prague, and I'm low on money. I rationalize that he's given up on me. That maybe... maybe I can risk one con. And I do.

And for days after stealing the Degas, I don't see a sign of him. And I begin to hope.

I'm sitting at a café, watching the people there, happy and in love, and I mourn that I didn't have that. I mourn the fact that these women have husbands who will love them, treat them with respect. Maybe a few of the women will get divorced, cheated on, but they'll be happier for the rest of their lives than I was with my husband. I look at my left hand. The white line from my wedding ring is no longer visible, and I take it as a good sign.

I look around the area and my heart stops in my throat because I recognize that curly hair, that tall, broad figure. And he's staring at me. He looks the same, but then again, from this distance, I can't see him as well as I'd like to. The only difference is that instead of the dark jeans and t-shirts, now he's wearing a suit that would have had me drooling over him once upon a time. But that was before I knew what he was capable of. I take off running, ducking through the alleyways I've walked hundreds of times, made sure I knew, so that I have an escape if I need one. And I can hear him following me, his breath light and even as his feet pound over and over again into the cobblestones. I don't remember Chris being this fit, and I sure as hell knew that when we were married, he couldn't run.

I process this all while I turn corners, duck the street vendors offering things to the 'pretty lady.' Normally, I have time for these people, to walk among them and admire their wares. Today, I don't.

I lose him eventually, but I don't dare go back to my hotel, for fear that he'll be there.

I go next to Ireland, hiding myself in a small village, taking on a new name, a new identity. I don't forget the old ones, but I don't reuse them. It's too dangerous.

I hide in Ireland for a while, and find out on the news that the Degas I stole was returned to the museum. Confusing, but Chris return the painting and blame me for the theft, get more information on me than I thought he would.

I learn to lift wallets while I'm in Ireland. I go through the country, take every wallet I can get, all the money... by the time I've finished grifting my way through Ireland, my funds are replenished enough that I can move on. I go to Damascus next, risk stealing another painting.

This time, when Chris finds me, he catches me. I can't walk, can hardly move by the time Nathan Ford catches up to me, and suddenly, everything is different.

Nate is as smart as Chris, but there's so much light in his eyes that I feel dizzy. Nate takes me to a hospital, vouching for me that I'm not a thief and sends the police after his own brother. They don't catch him, but Chris is forced to run, and Nate spends days in the hospital, telling me about his life, and asking me about mine. A week passes before I finally tell him a bit of my story, my life since meeting Chris.

And he takes my hand and gives me this intense gaze that brings tears to my eyes.

"I promise you, Sophie, I'm going to bring him down, and I will never let _anyone_ hurt you like that again."

And I believe him.


End file.
